Into the Night

by Marin Montgomery

  Blair

  “Blair.” My father yells from the bottom of the stairs at our farmhouse. It’s not technically our home, the church owns it, but we’ve been living here for the past seven years, since 1991.

  Before that, the same – another small town, the farm on the outskirts of the county line, and a gravel driveway.

  At first, I assume I’m in trouble. It’s always my fault since I’m the older sister that should know better. Earlier, I could hear Bristol downstairs talking to my parents. The vents reside in the floor and carry sound upwards, my name repeatedly mentioned with that tone.

  Before I graduated, I used to listen to every fight my parents had and every argument that involved my name.

  Now I crank the volume on my music and ignore the world.

  At least when I’m home. They pick at me, nagging me to be like her.

  Bristol’s an annoying brat that likes to stir the pot – she probably told my mother I said the “f” word to her. She’s always the first to start a fight and eager to run to our ‘parental units,’ as I call them, when she doesn’t get her way.

  She used to be decent until my mother started coddling her, convincing her she’s the most extraordinary girl in the world.

  “Blair, get down here.” His voice carries up the stairs.

  I roll my eyes, standing up from my bed, the pillows haphazardly scattered.

  “If it’s about Bristol, she can…” I screech before I reach the top of the stairs.

  “Stop yammering and come down here.” My father’s standing at the foot of the creaky staircase, arms crossed in exasperation.

  Not the best sign.

  He hides his annoyance well – not a trace of anger in his hazel eyes, so I might be in the clear, but he’s got a great poker face.

  I shrug, taking the stairs one at a time, my socks padding on the wood slats. Because this house was built in the early nineteen hundreds, it heats rapidly upstairs but has an arctic chill downstairs, the fireplace the only source of constant heat in the living room. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer.

  My mother’s seated on the faded flowered couch with my sister, knitting a new colorful sweater she’ll inevitably donate to a shelter or raffle off at a church fundraiser.

  Bristol’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, answering church mail, her petite frame leaning against Oggie, our three-year-old sheepdog mix. They both weigh about the same, and sometimes I can’t tell who’s supporting who.

  “What is it?” I’m wary, leaning against the doorframe between the kitchen and living room, keeping my distance. If this is an intervention or I’m being ganged up on, I want an exit strategy.

  My father settles in his La-Z-Boy, his reading glasses propped on his forehead, a Bible in his hand. He starts on next week’s sermon after church, his mind already thinking of the next lesson he’ll drill into the congregation’s ears.

  “We want to talk to you.” He motions for me to come closer, his brows furrowing in frustration.

  “Does she need to be here?” I nod in my sister’s direction.

  “It involves her.” My mother looks up from her ball of yarn. Our tabby cat, Isabella, rests on the sofa behind her shoulder, taunting Oggie.

  They remind me of Bristol and I, always trying to get the last word in, make the other get caught doing something they shouldn’t be.

  I sigh, annoyed, as I sink into the other side of the sofa. My mother grabs the remote and mutes the volume, the newscaster droning on about the latest forecast that’s inevitably wrong.

  Dark and miserable with a chance of flurries, I think.

  Same as every day here in winter.

  I just want out of this place.

  California. That’s where it’s at.

  “We’ve done some thinking,” My father intrudes on my thoughts, placing his reading glasses on his Bible. “We want you to be able to have a college experience and memories that you can look back on fondly.”

  I’m half-listening until he says this.

  My ears perk up.

  “We want you to have a vacation,” my mother chimes in. “Your father and I know you’ve worked hard to maintain a ‘B’ average, which isn’t as good as your sister’s...” I start to interrupt, but she holds up a knitting needle in protest. “Let me finish.”

  “We realize you’re in college and she’s in high school.” She bites her lip. “So with that said, we’ve decided to allow you to go on a trip.”

  “I get to go to Mexico?” A wave of excitement overcomes me. I close my eyes for a moment, thinking of the white sand beaches I’ve read about in brochures and the piña coladas women in barely-there bikinis are drinking. My Alpha Delta Pi sisters have assured me everyone can drink in Mexico since eighteen is the legal age.

  This is a golden opportunity to meet guys that speak fluent Spanish or fraternity boys from one of the coasts. I imagine a tan surfer dude teaching me how to paddle board or a sharp New Yorker whose parents have a house in the grandiose Hamptons.

  My plan comes to a screeching halt when my father says, “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?” I narrow my eyes. “What kind of a vacation?”

  “A camping trip,” my sister grins, “in our mini-van.”

  “What the hell?” Cursing, I bang my fist against the chintzy fabric.

  “With that attitude, you’re not going anywhere, young lady,” my mother lambasts at the same time my father says, “Watch your mouth, young lady.”

  “Fine,” I pull my knees up underneath me on the sofa. “Can someone explain to me what the heck’s going on?”

  “Like always, you just took your sister’s bait.” My father shoots a dirty look in my direction. “One day you’ll learn to listen first and then ask questions.”

  I know he means it in a good way. My father and I have a much better relationship than the tenuous one I have with my mother.

  She’s constantly comparing Bristol and I.

  I’m never pretty, skinny, smart...enough. Insert whatever adjective and that’s me.

  She catalogs my faults like she’s writing a book on the ‘worst daughter of the year’ award. Every time, I’m the designated recipient.

  “We’ve decided you can go on a trip.” My mother smiles, but it’s half-hearted. One of her fake smirks that are reserved for me. “But there’re a couple of conditions.”

  I start to open my mouth, instantly shutting it, remembering what my father just said. Staring between them, I pause, hesitating. “What are they?”

  “One, you’re taking your sister with you.” Mother ticks off on her fingers. “Two, you’re not going to Mexico – it’s too dangerous.”

  I suck on my lip, trying not to pout. “But Mexico has a drinking age of eighteen,” I object.

  She ignores me and continues, “Three, you’ll look out for her and report back to us each night. Four, no drinking and absolutely no boys.”

  Looking at my father, I wait to see his response. I know they discussed this together, they don’t make any decisions regarding my sister and I without being on the same page.

  I cringe, afraid to ask what state we’re allowed to visit. My bet’s on a border state of Nebraska.

  They must be in-tune with my thoughts. “We know you want a beach, want to get away for spring break.” My father tilts his head at me. “Bristol suggested Hawaii.”

  “You let my younger sister decide on my college spring break trip?”

  “Take it or leave it.” My mother shrugs, clanking her knitting needles together.

  “We can’t go to Mexico but we can go to Hawaii?” I’m pissed. I shoot Bristol a death glare.

  “You don’t need a passport for Hawaii,” my sister retorts. “I don’t have one, do you?”

  “I was going to get one.” I turn to my father. “She has to go?” I don’t bother hiding my frustration.

  “Your sister’s the reason you possibly get to go at all.” Mother’s barbed glance at my father annoys me. I’m always th
e ungrateful one, the troublemaker.

  I look in Bristol’s direction, her tongue flicked out at me. I’d flip her off, but my father’s focused on my reaction. “She agreed to accompany you,” he says.

  “Why do I need a chaperone?” I moan. “I’m almost twenty.”

  “You just turned nineteen, Blair,” my father reminds me. “Stop trying to grow up so fast,” he admonishes. “We don’t feel comfortable with you going out of the country with a bunch of your sorority sisters. Maybe next year. Let’ see how this trip goes, deal? We know what happens on spring break. It’d be reckless of us to allow that.”

  I like to bait my parents, especially when they remind me they ‘know’ something. To know would imply they actually had fun at one point in their lives.

  I’m unclear when this ever was.

  Certainly not after having children.

  Pressing my luck, I play dumb. “What happens on spring break?”

  “You know, the usual.” My mother picks up her knitting needle, avoiding my curious scrutiny.

  “No,” I shake my head. “I don’t. Can you please explain?”

  She rolls her eyes at the yarn, knowing exactly what I’m trying to do.

  “Drinking. Keg stands. Intercourse,” My father pounds his fist on his Bible. “Way too many temptations in Mexico. Hawaii is more tame for you young kids.”

  “You mean, since college students don’t go there for spring break unless they’re with their parents?” I infer. “Maybe we should just go to Disney and call it a day.”

  “You’re a spoiled brat.” Mother sighs.

  “What did you guys do in college?” I wiggle my brows. “Oh yeah, you had me.” I kick my leg out, touching my mother’s thigh with my foot. My parents got married at nineteen, I was born a year later. “Just think, I’m the same age.”

  “Oh Blair.” She shakes her head. “You’re impossible.”

  “Keep asking questions and we’ll revoke our offer,” my father says mildly. “Bristol can go with a friend and you can work.”

  Point taken.

  He glances between his notebook and his Bible, the universal signal that the conversation is over. His glasses appear back on the bridge of his nose.

  “Okay,” I agree. “I’ll take Bristol. But I have my own conditions.”

  My father glances up, a warning look on his face.

  “She can’t act like a brat when we’re there.” I pout. “I don’t want to have to hold her hand and have her ruin all my fun. I’m going for the beach, not to sit in some kiddie pool and babysit a toddler.”

  “Ha, that’s funny. If I recall, I have more friends than you…”

  “and”... she silently mouths, “a boyfriend.”

  Dating is forbidden in our household until college.

  Except now that I’m a sophomore, it’s a non-issue because I’m so scared of the opposite sex. I clam up every time I have to talk to a guy about a group project or homework. I’m awkward and out of place, my hands clam up and I sweat bullets.

  Real attractive.

  The only time I can seem to find my courage is when it’s liquid – after I've pounded a few vodka sours.

  This year is the first time I’ve given a hand job and it wasn’t enjoyable…for him or me. I’m so far off the grid of being sexually enlightened that I might as well adopt seventeen cats and call them all by spices.

  Cinnamon.

  Clove.

  Ginger.

  Maybe even Peppercorn.

  I’ll become a hoarder – keeping yellowed newspapers as kitty litter and a collection of breakable dolls I bought on the Home Shopping Network.

  “Why can’t the two of you have sisterly bonding time?” Mother asks. “You two need to learn to get along. You’re all each other has in this world.”

  “Oh, but we have you, Mom,” my sister gloats.

  She’s the biggest suck-up in the world, a 4-H pageant queen, stuck-in-the-mud chorus girl who has everyone fooled about her cherubic persona.

  My parents have us all wrong.

  “Fine.” I agree. “Let’s start planning.”

  And just like that, my Mexico dreams turned into a Hawaiian nightmare.

  4

  Blair

  Oahu’s the most populated of the Hawaiian islands, so my parents thought it would inevitably be the safest.

  So did we.

  Bristol and I stare out the airplane window in awe. The mountains, the volcanoes, the vast difference between the flat topography of Nebraska and the variations in the landscape entrance both of us.

  We sit speechless for a moment, captivated. Maybe this won't be so bad.

  My parents gave us a couple hotel options, all beachfront. We settled on The Waterfront, a resort that boasted of magnificent views of the Pacific, an infinity pool that touched the ocean, a slight variation in color between the lapis blue water of the pool and the cerulean blue of the ocean. If you stared just right, the two looked like they were one fluid motion, the brilliant blues captured in the sunlight.

  Pool chairs were docked in three feet of water. Bristol and I immediately spread out in our bikinis and sunglasses, eyes closed to the impending sunlight.

  The first two days we grab a latte from the local coffee shop and a croissant before posting out for our morning suntan. I can tell by Bristol’s silence when I order a latte that she’s impressed by my knowledge of espresso. Her usual routine is orange juice and buttered cinnamon toast, the same since we were children.

  She senses a sophistication in me from my departure to college outside of our mundane, small town. Stuttering, the first time she orders from the barista, repeating my drink but failing to remember the slew of words like “half-pump and skim milk.”

  Lamely, her face burns as she stops mid-sentence. “I’ll just have what she’s having.”

  We take our breakfast and cozy up on the plastic white and navy deck chairs before the afternoon crowd fills the air with conversations in various foreign tongues and loud, squawking kids pounding beach balls at each other.

  In the A.M., it's quiet – the only sound the water shifting. Speedboats pound the white foam, and an early-morning surfer straddles a board as they shoot over the waves like a cannon.

  By day three of this routine, we’re restless – our time was filled with walking the shops and buying useless trinkets. Both sets of grandparents and our parents have been sent souvenirs and postcards with slogans like, “The beach is in our sight,” with a picture of the sun setting over the ocean, or, “Aloha, but we’re never saying goodbye to Hawaii.”

  I try to heed my parents’ rules, at least in the beginning.

  But Bristol’s a fish out of water, literally.

  And so am I.

  Our family vacations amounted to Midwestern lakes and ponds.

  Fishing in Minnesota.

  Scouring Lake Michigan for bottles and cans to donate to the needy.

  Never an actual sunny place where we control our time and leisure. Left alone to our own devices.

  “I’m bored.” Bristol complains.

  “You don’t like the water anymore?” I ask, rubbing a red spot the sunscreen missed on my neck.

  “I love the water, but we’ve been staring at the same stretch for days,” she protests. Always one to be positive, her crankiness is a surprise.

  “Let’s go ask the front desk what’s available.” My father gave me his credit card with explicit instructions, only use if necessary.

  The parental units sent us off with cash, but the hotel requires a credit card to hold the room, which I must show in person. My parents made arrangements with the resort and their credit card company, Visa, that I’m an authorized user for a week.

  At least my father trusts me.

  I still haven’t opened my own line of credit for fear I will max it out at the mall.

  Plus my parents forbid it.

  My mother argued over leaving a teenager who has the responsibility of a flea in charge. I think the other
part of her statement was ‘sucking them dry’ and ‘bleeding them out of house and home’, an expression I’ve never understood.

  She didn’t reference both of us in her statement. Bristol she kept out of any category that would cast her in an unfavorable light.

  Me, certainly.

  The front desk sends us to the concierge, a word I keep repeating over and over. It has a nice ring to it, a word that screamed finesse.

  A tall man in a burgundy top hat and matching coat with gold ornaments stands at attention.

  Bristol stands behind me, suddenly shy.

  “Hi sir, we’d like to do an afternoon excursion.” I click my nails on the counter. “Any ideas?”

  “Certainly.” He smiles at us. “Off the island or on?”

  “Here. One we can walk to.”

  “What type of activity?” He looks between us. “Snorkeling? Dolphin watching? Shark tanks?” I turn to eyeball my sister, whose eyes widen at the mention of great whites.

  “Sharks,” I deadpan.

  She elbows me in the ribs.

  “Just kidding.” I shrug.

  The man grins, his fingers flying over a keyboard. “How about surf lessons?”

  “Oh my God, yes, yes, yes,” Bristol squeaks.

  “You want to learn to ride the waves?” I ask.

  “Totally. Everyone will be so jealous.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Can you imagine me on a surfboard?”

  “No, not really.” I say. “But I’d love to try.”

  “Two surf lessons for this afternoon?”

  We nod.

  The man’s brass nametag says ‘Jeffrey’. “Booking you for today, March twenty-third.”

  “Sure thing, Jeffrey.” I smile at him.

  At noon we head outside to a tiki hut to meet our instructor, a hot, college-aged Filipino. He’s over six feet tall and sculpted, his broad shoulders carry a surf board easily, and you can tell he feels more at ease in water than on land.

  “Hi, Will Loomis.” He shakes both of our hands, pumping them up and down. “I’m the surf coach.”

  Bristol’s smitten the second he smiles at her, his even white teeth brightening when he sees her petite frame in a yellow and white striped bikini.